My Boy Builds Coffins
by RandomDarknessPsycho
Summary: In his spare time, Sebastian Moran builds coffins for the targets he kills for Jim Moriarty. He even ends up building one for Sherlock Holmes. But how will he cope when he has to build one for Jim himself? (My first MorMor fic so please don't be too harsh)


_My boy builds coffins, he makes them all day  
But it's not just for work and it isn't for play,  
He's made one for himself,  
One for me too,  
One of these days he'll make one for you._

_(Florence + The Machine)_

Sebastian Moran hammered the nails on the coffin, his skin glistening with sweat. It was a brilliant, sunny morning, and Jim Moriarty watched him do what he did best- besides being a sniper: Building coffins.

It was a gift, really, the sniper had. Each coffin he crafted was unique, made from the finest wood and sporting intricate carvings. Unfortunately, most of the coffins ended up being seen by Jim and Jim alone, on the account of the corpses they buried in them were the corpses of the targets Sebastian took down for him.

Today, however, lying on the grass, the consulting criminal noticed that there was something _different _about the coffin he was making.

"Whose coffin are you building? Sure as hell isn't going to be for our usual _clients_," Jim asked, gesturing at the polished, dark-wooded box.

Sebastian paused, out the hammer down, and wiped the sweat off his forehead. "Sherlock's," was the reply.

Aha. No wonder his Tiger was being so careful while crafting this coffin. It was meant for the consulting detective's stone-cold body. The idea of Sherlock in a wooden box, being lowered to the ground, caused him to chuckle.

"What's so funny, Boss?"

"Oh, nothing. Just the look of surprise on John's face when I kill Sherlock."

"I'm sure you'll cherish the moment."

"Indeed."

Jim got up, slowly, then joined his sniper by his latest masterpiece, admiring the carvings: The initials 'SH', a blood-stained sword, a crown in a puddle of blood, a mirror reflecting the image of a silhouetted figure with demons wings.

"You bastard, you've taken so much loving time to create this. Will you do the same with _my_ coffin?" Jim questioned, only half-joking, but Sebastian stared at him, aghast.

"Shut up, Jim, you fucker, just _shut up_. No. You go down, I go down."

The dark-haired man shoved the sniper. "Fuck off, I was just joking."

"Well, at least don't joke about _this_."

"_Fine._" Pulling a face, Jim stuck his middle finger up at Sebastian and strode away. What a miserable sod, if he couldn't even take a fucking joke. Sometimes he wondered if Sebastian had a sense of humor.

_I'll fucking show you how sick my humor can get, you fucker._

~A month later~

Sebastian was on the roof of St. Bart's. Below him, everyone was gathered around Sherlock fucking Holmes's body, but up here, only the sniper was there to cradle Jim's lifeless body.

There was blood on his hands, on his shirt. It didn't matter. Tears pricked his eyes, a growing lump in his throat. Yet he _refused_ to break down.

"Goddamn it, Jim, this isn't fucking funny anymore. Wake up. Wake up, please," he pleaded, stroking the consulting criminal's dark hair. "I won't fucking do it, you bastard. I'm going to leave you on this roof, I swear, if you don't get up. I don't care. You can walk home."

Flies were starting to buzz around them, and he swatted them away. Anger was starting to form.

"Fine, then! Fuck you, Jim Moriarty!" Standing up, he let the corpse's head slam onto the ground, spilling more blood. "Fuck you and your fucking sick jokes, you twisted bastard! You can go to hell for all I fucking care!"

The mocking smile on Jim's face stayed intact, those dark sightless eyes staring at some distant point behind him. Sebastian gave it a vicious kick, and all it did was cause the crimson liquid to gush out a little faster.

"You did it, you killed Sherlock, now we can go home and put him in the coffin. The one I built. That's what you wanted all along, wasn't it? Wasn't it?!" he was screaming now, not caring who heard him. "So let's get up! I can't carry _two_ bodies, you arse! SO GET THE FUCK UP AND WALK, GODDAMN YOU, MORIARTY!"

Finally, all those emotions came rushing to the surface. Tears started to run down his face, and Sebastian covered his face with his hands, beginning to weep.

"Fuck you, Jim. Fuck you, and your Westwood, and your Semtex, and your tea, and your fascination with Sherlock. Fuck you."

~An unidentified amount of time later~

The final coffin was ready. Sebastian was fairly certain it was the last coffin he'd ever make. A coffin worthy of his king.

It was perfect, the polished wood gleaming in the darkness, and he'd spent all day carving. A tiger ran up the side of the coffin, a crown at the bottom, a sniper rifle here, a Westwood there, the words 'Stayin' Alive' emblazoned across the middle. Beneath that, Jim's name.

He was rather proud of it, really, the sniper was. It was one of his best, better than the shit he built for Sherlock.

Opening the lid, he smiled. Jim's body lay inside, still dressed in the same clothes he'd worn at St. Bart's.

"I'm coming for you," the sniper whispered, running a hand down the fabric of the Westwood. "You better have your bags packed, because I'm bringing you back."

Gently, he lowered himself into the coffin, he lay on top of the dead man, letting the cold flesh touch his for a while. Looking up, he fancied he could count every one of the stars in the deep blue sky.

Then, Sebastian took the gun out of his pocket, pressed it to his heart, and closed his eyes.

Truth be told, he didn't want to do this. He wanted to live, to plot how to take down John Watson, to be a sniper. He didn't want this life to end so quickly.

But duty above honor, service above self.

He was Jim's man through and through, and he'd made a pact the day they'd met: That he went where Jim went. Even if it took him to the darkest corners of Hell.

So Sebastian Moran pulled the trigger.

It took him less than half a second to realize that it was a stupid thing to do. But never mind. He was getting colder, the stars burning brighter. He'd be with Jim soon. He'd never have to build a fucking coffin again.

That was a regret.

"Staying alive was boring, after all…" he tried to say, but his tongue was jammed in his mouth, and his eyelids were getting heavier.

Were those sirens he heard, or a demonic choir welcoming him home?

The sniper was past the point of caring.

Closing his eyes, he let the world disappear, let a single word resound in his head.

"_Tiger?"_

_My boy builds coffins he makes them all day  
But it's not just for work and it isn't for play  
He's made one for himself  
One for me too  
One of these days he'll make one for you_


End file.
